Summer Call
by Mitasova
Summary: The Prince of Ithilien hears his brother's horn one more time.


Summer Call

Disclaimer: What is Tolkien's, is Tolkien's.

Summer Call

"Please, Grandsire, stay indoors. Aunt Rohiriel says you've been unwell since Tiulë."

"Nonsense, Barahir. I am quite fine and I long for fresh air. If your aunt had it her way, I would not have been leaving a sickbed for ten years now."

The fair-haired youth chuckled: "and I would still be in the cradle."

"Indeed. How fortunate it is, then, that she's away seeing to the newborn foals. Now, be a good lad and fetch me my riding boots. I think they might have become stiff with under-use."

"Yes, Grandsire."

Faramir watched his grandson rummaging in the large iron-bound chest, sniffing at the dust cloudlets that were puffing from within. He was not entirely honest in his dismissal of his eldest daughter's worries. Chest-pains still troubled him, though not as bad as at Midwinter when he was often afraid to take another breath. But now the summer was on an ascent, the grass of Emyn Arnen embroidered with golden sun-rays, and even the shadowed silence of his favourite study appeared constricting and unwelcome.

He declined Barahir's offer to help him put on his boots and rose up from his chair, his fingers lingering briefly on the simple carving of the wooden armrests.

"Let us go." Together, they crossed toward the entranceway, leaving the chamber to the lonely wasp that was flinging itself frantically against the window pan, the set of chess abandoned mid-game, and not quite settled dust.

Outside of the study, the vast house was almost frighteningly silent. Even the clang and clatter of kitchen bowls died away shortly after the mid-day meal. The kitchen noise used to drive Faramir desperate, storming into his ears when he was trying to read or write; countless times he had vowed to himself to move his "refuge" somewhere father from the kitchen. Preferably, to the loft.

He had never quite managed to do it, though: partly because of all the little things that had gathered there through the decades and that he loathed to disturb, but mainly for Èowyn. The study was the same now as it had been in the time of her illness. The Lady of Ithilien had never much favoured studious activities, but in her last years she had often came thither and sometimes he had read to her aloud. Until her last breath, she wished to hear tales of battles.

A gentle hand touched his sleeve, and Faramir realized that he had been standing motionless for a while staring at the closed door.

"Grandsire, are you well?" Barahir asked, looking worried. "Are you sure you wish to ride with me?"

"I am fine," he said a trifle thickly, like a man recently awoken. "I am not young any more, my boy. Memories often catch up with me and stir my thoughts to the past."

Barahir nodded seriously. As they started their way through the hall toward the guardroom, he cleared his throat and spoke tentatively.

"If I'm permitted to ask, Grandsire, what were you thinking of?"

"'Tis hardly anything that you have not already heard, Barahir," the Prince said with a little smile.

"Grandmother?"

He nodded. "I was remembering how much quieter this house has become since she departed; it seems too vast now for all of us who remain.

"She is not the only one though," Faramir continued quietly. "Blood of Numenor is a boon, they say; whoever shows it true is blessed with the Valars' touch. But there are times, my boy, there are times when it becomes a burden.

"Let's go this way," he said suddenly, seizing Barahir's arm and steering him towards the kitchen door. At the boy's confused stare, he smiled: "Beregond's at the front door. He will not stop us, but your aunt will know everything about our little adventure the moment she crosses the threshold. Mayhap, even earlier. I will never hear the end of it."

Barahir grinned with some admiration, and together they skulked through the kitchen, sun-lit and empty this time of the day, and were greeted outside by dozy, heat-stricken dogs and the distant wailing of a baby. The summer afternoon spread over Emyn Arnen, shining and quiet, shushing all sounds, cutting off all chores and amusements.

For a moment, the Prince stood tall and unmoving in the desolate backyard, tilting his still fair face upward to the sun, his hair and beard shining pure silver under her caress. Then he smiled and strode toward the stables, Barahir at his heels.

"You did not yet understand what I was saying to you, did you?" the Prince asked while his grandson was saddling two horses with the help of a very disheveled and over-zealous stable-boy. "What I was saying earlier, about the blood of Numenor." Barahir looked at him uncertainly.

"Oh, I think I did, Grandsire, I did understand."

"You think you did," the Prince said, "but you did not. Those who went beyond the circles of the world, never to return, there are far too many of them. They slopped away from me, one by one, and I could do nought but watch them pass. Your grandmother, her brother Èomer, King of the Mark, his queen, my cousin. All my childhood friends, all my brothers in arms, Boromir, my brother in blood, whom you are so much alike, my boy. All of them are no more, yet I tarry."

The youth raised his face from the horse's side where he was adjusting the saddle-girth. "Am I truly so much alike him, Grandsire?"

The stable-boy went to busy himself in the far corner of the stall.

"He was dark, as all of us in the line of Hurin, but other than that you could be his son. Or rather, his grandson." Faramir went closer and laid his hand on the mare's neck. Grey hide was twitching slightly beneath his fingers. "Aye, verily the same face. If I ever become old enough to start forgetting what my loved ones looked like, I shall simply summon you hither, and I shall have the image of my brother in the flesh before me.

"Of course," he continued quietly, taking the reins from Barahir and leading the horse from the stall and toward a bright rectangular that was the stable's door; "your sister reminds me so of my late lady wife that it pains me to watch her sometimes."

Leading the animals, the old man and the young man crossed the backyard to the small gate in the waist-high fence, and there Barahir helped his grandsire to mount. The Prince did not rebuke him, covertly wincing as he gathered the reins. They headed West on a light trot, a couple of dogs tagging along at their heels; the Sun had already started her way downward and the spire of the Tower of Echtelion was clearly visible from where they were - a needle of fierce, golden light. Up close, it had long since become difficult for Faramir to see anything clearly, but he prided himself on still being able to ken distance as sharply as he had done when this serene land was a bridgehead for the armies of Mordor, preparing to deal a killing blow to the White City.

Sun-soaked, lush grasslands opened up before them, punctuated here and there with small grooves and delineated with paths and fences. Common folk were still working in the open despite the heat; they greeted the riders with silent bows of their heads. A girl of probably ten years of age, the skirt of her dress hitched up around her knees, popped up from the oat field, tucked a fistful of bluebell blossoms into Barahir's hand and dove back again blushing like a strawberry. A breeze from the Anduin River was gentle upon their faces; Cermië was nearing its peak.

Barahir sniffed the flowers absently and tucked them under the pommel.

"Speaking of my sister, Grandsire, she is most eager to meet with you. She has written down a song about Grandmother, exactly like it had been sung in the Golden Hall. Uncle Théodmund even made the minstrel sing it again so Narwen would write every word properly. And she has translated it into the Common Tongue!" The young man was clearly proud of his sister's achievement.

"They called her Lady of the Shield-Arm," the Prince muttered and rubbed the spot above his breast, closer to his left shoulder. "That arm bothered her mightily in her older age.

"So why did Narwen not come with you, then?" he asked abruptly, returning to the subject at hand. "'Tis half a day's journey for the both of you, even if you decided to have a picnic along the way. Surely your father would approve."

"Well, the song is still at the bookbinder's, and she wanted to present it to you herself," said Barahir and looked down at the bluebells. "She misses you, Grandsire. She says nobody can understand her songs and her legends quite as you do."

"You are quite a lore master yourself, Barahir. I know you match your sister supremely. Though apparently," said Faramir with a smile, "in a rather different field."

"Well, that stunt with the Halfling weed was purely for experiment!" Barahir cried in mock defensiveness. "I do find joy in talking to strangers," he added after a pause. "I am ever glad to know them better - their customs, lands, songs. But Narwen… those old tales are her passion. When she made Master Legolas render the lament that they had sung to Uncle Boromir's funeral boat, she… Oh, forgive me, my lord! I did not want to cause you grief!"

Wincing, Faramir tried to sit differently to relieve a dull ache that was flaring up slowly behind his breastbone.

"You did not," he said carefully. "'Tis a good song and fortunate we all are that it has not sunk into time unnoticed.

'_Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.  
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.  
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;  
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'  
_

"He died free of any taint," the Prince finished almost inaudibly. His grandson turned to him swiftly.

"What?"

"Naught, boy. 'Tis a tale for another time," he smiled. "Perhaps when your lady sister deems it the right time to visit an old man, I shall tell it to her."

The path led them through a tiny groove of birches, then another.

"She does not want to pester you, Grandsire, and neither do I, but…" Barahir nudged his steed closer to his grandfather's. "We miss you so, all of us. If you are indeed feeling better, would you not come to Minas Tirith someday? Father still says that he needs you to guide him in the fine art of being Steward."

"Your father is a perfectly capable Steward from what I've heard, and I've heard much," Faramir said mildly. "Though if he truly says that, then I must indeed come to the White City immediately - to whip some sense into him." He took a sharp breath as a white-hot spike of pain lunged through his chest and into his left arm.

Barahir looked at him, alarmed.

"Grandsire," he took his hand tentatively. The Prince's face was pale and strained, lips drawn back in a silent hiss.

"Help me dismount, my boy," he said through gritted teeth. "I think I… overestimated myself somewhat."

Barahir, now also pale as a sheet, jumped hastily from the saddle, yanking at the hem of his tunic that snagged on the ornate stirrup. He took his grandfather's hands in his and Faramir all but fell in his arms, making the younger man falter. Together, they made a short way to the nearest birch groove, Faramir leaning heavily on his grandson's shoulder. Old as he was, he was still greater then Barahir in height and in millstone.

Gently Barahir eased him onto the juicy, warm grass. _"What should I do?"_ he thought frantically, unlatching the top of the Prince's outer cloak, _"Valar, what have I done?"_

"Heart…" the Prince whispered torturously. "Love… It burns." Barahir was leaning over him, trying to make him comfortable, but in the gentle orange light of the setting sun Faramir saw another face - so similar to this one, yet older, and darker, and stronger.

And then, there it was - a long, low, powerful note, faint but unmistakable, exactly like the night he had heard it the last time, in the great distance over the western marches. Mightier and mightier it was swelling, then began to fade. Yet if all those years ago the horn's blow had been a desperate, broken cry for help, now there was hope in it, and something akin to promise. He was going to meet his brother soon. Faramir focused his eyes on his grandson's face.

"I will fetch them," Barahir was saying, looking at him with pleading eyes. "They're going to help you. Grandsire, do you hear me?" There was panic in his voice.

Faramir managed to smile. "Go on boy… go on. I shall wait."

Barahir leaned in and touched his lips to the Prince's brow, then rose hastily and swung himself into the saddle. _"He rides forward, to the ferry, which is nearer. Not back. Clever boy." _Faramir closed his eyes.

The sun was mild now, day leaning already to the evening, but the burning within his chest didn't abate, but grew stronger as if drenched in venomous oil. It was becoming hard to breathe and his left arm was utterly numb. _"Ride forth, Steward's son. You will not save this pile of debris that was your father's father. I shall not give anyone advice on how to be the Steward, for I do not know what it is. The last Steward burned himself in Rath Dinen, on the fire such as now consumes my heart. The White Rod is broken and the Horn of Valandil shall roar no more. Our King is just, his lady Queen wise and fair. We of Hurin's line are all but embroidery on their glorious standard. But I lived a good life and I wish you do the same, my boy"_

His vision was blurring, the golden veil descending upon his eyes. In the distance, he heard voices, anxious, shouting. Hooves thudded on the dirt. With his last strength Faramir turned his head to the sound and saw a gleaming grey horse gliding towards him, as if drifting above the grass. A slender woman with long flaxen hair was sitting astride it. Faramir's heart surged. She steered her mount away from him, to the fields where bluebells glinted like sequins, but at the last moment she turned, laughing, and beckoned him after her.

The horn blasted again, nearer this time, and the Prince of Ithilien felt a familiar hand, strong and warm, squeeze his shoulder, soothing him, telling him not to be afraid. His time had come.

The End


End file.
